


Five Stages

by Maddalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddalia/pseuds/Maddalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first fic in this fandom, so just a harmless little dose of fluffy PWP. Based on the "Five Stages of Grief" model, John deals with his feelings for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages

_DENIAL._

I'm not gay. Why do people keep assuming that about me? Alright, so I have a male flatmate, but so do countless blokes. They go out with women. _I_ go out with women. Just because _he_ doesn't …

I mean yeah, I won't deny it, Sherlock's an attractive bloke, but I _am_ allowed to notice other men, you know. Women spend hours evaluating each other -- why shouldn't we? And dreams shouldn't be taken literally. They're metaphors: symbols. I'm not responsible for what happens in my head when I'm sleeping, and it certainly does NOT reflect my feelings when I'm awake.

If it did, I'd be gay, and -- I'm not. So that's that.

 

_ANGER._

Should have known he'd manage to ruin my life somehow, I just never dreamed it'd be like this. It's not like I've done anything to deserve this. It's his fault, him and his bloody cheekbones and his turned-up collars, his eyes and his hands and his brain. Fucking aphrodisiac, all that cleverness. And he just doesn't give a shit about _anyone,_ even me. Oh, he goes through the motions, but that's only because I'm useful to him. 

He's a cold, unfeeling bastard and I hate him -- but at the same time it's anything but and my _God,_ it pisses me off. I want to smash in that weirdly gorgeous face, feel its bones cracking under my fist. Maybe if I did that I wouldn't feel so fucking wretched.

 

_BARGAINING._

Alright, so I let him … well, he let me … God, I can't even remember, all I know is it was bloody fantastic and I can't stop _thinking_ about it, can't stop thinking about _him._ Christ, he's amazing. But it's not, you know, _serious_ or anything, even though it feels like it when we … I mean, when we're … and I know it's as good for him as it is for me, because he never lies, Sherlock, lying's beneath him …

Me, lying beneath him. Him, lying beneath me. Oh Jesus, I …

No, I don't. It's not like that. This is just a temporary aberration, a matter of convenience. I can't hold down a relationship with all the crap we have to deal with, and women seem to think we're a couple anyway, so why not? We're just satisfying each other because it's the easiest thing to do. I'm still young -- fairly -- and there's plenty of time. I'll just have this thing with Sherlock, because it's what works best right now, and it's bloody good and what's wrong with that? After that, I'll settle down. Become a GP, find a nice girl, have a couple of kids. Just not _quite_ yet.

 

_DEPRESSION._

I have to admit, I always thought it was crap, all that unrequited love bit. Not that I haven't had my fair share of rejections, but I've always thought of them as a sign that it's not meant to happen. It can't be real unless the other person feels the same. Well, that's what I thought, until now.

I've done it; I've gone and done it. Fallen in love with the most unloving, unlovable being on the planet, and what's worse is he doesn't even have the decency to be unattainable, at least not his body … that seems to be mine for the taking. All I have to do is look at him sideways and he's flashing me that crooked grin, the one that asks and offers all at once. 

I want to cry when I take him, because every time could be the last. He could tire of it. He gets bored with everything in the end. I know I'm just another experiment to him, another specimen under his microscope so to speak, and yet I just wait here to get my heart broken. It might kill me, but I can't stop wanting him.

 

_ACCEPTANCE._

Enough excuses. We belong to each other, Sherlock. You may never admit that, but it's true. I know deep down, you feel it. As for me -- there'll never be anyone else but you, I know that now. And d'you know what I've realised? I don't _want_ there to be. If this is what our life is going to be, fine. I don't need the rest. I love you, that's all.

'Love you too, John.'

'What?'

' _I_ see. Either you didn't realise I was awake -- a fact you should have registered by the subtle but telling change in my breathing -- or you didn't realise you were thinking out loud. Aha, and your pulse is quickening! Rather a shame, I was enjoying how peaceful I'd made you.'

'Shut up, Sherlock.'

'Now, John, is that any way to address the man you love?'

'Who loves _me._ Really?'

'Good God, John, I'd've thought even you would have recognised the signs. The most obvious being that I've stopped smoking, which as my doctor you _definitely_ should have noticed. But no, instead you're wading through self-imposed confusion, all because you're trying to fit us into your cosy little philosophy of life rather than the other way round, like it should be. Am I right?'

'God knows.'

'I don't believe in God, John, I believe in me. And Mycroft, when he can be bothered to be useful. And you, if you want to know.'

'Right.'

'Happiness. That's what it is now, happiness, which you're trying to bank down because you think I can't tell how deep your feelings go anyway, and all because I summed up emotions even _I_ can't explain into a trite three-word phrase that teenage boys use to get their rocks off.'

'It's not a summary, Sherlock. I know what love means, even if you don't.'

'John.'

'What?'

'I do know what it means.'

'Good. Can I go to sleep now, then?'

'Of course. I'll enjoy that peaceful heartbeat of yours.'

'You do that.'

'John.'

_'What?'_

'I'm not bored.'

'I'm flattered.'

'No, don't you get it? I'm just _lying_ here, my arms around you, your arms around me, and I'm mesmerised by your heartbeat. And I'm not bored. That's what love means.'

'Huh. That's actually nice.'

'It's elementary, my dear Watson.'

'No shit, Sherlock.'

\- end -


End file.
